


In the Dark

by burnthwc (manyamusedrhyme)



Series: In the Dark [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship, Violence and language typical to the series, set post s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 19:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6437293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manyamusedrhyme/pseuds/burnthwc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of season two, Karen's investigations bring her to the attention of some violent men. It's lucky that they're really not expecting the violent man she already knew...</p>
<p>Or: Karen gets in trouble, and Frank gets to do what he does best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this pairing has completely eaten my brain, so.

The attack happened like this, as near as Karen remembered it:

She stepped out of the tight, dark tenement where she’d spent the day, the smell of cigarette smoke following her, clinging to her hair. She took a deep breath of the cooler outside air, before fishing in her bag for her phone. She cursed at the ink on her fingers—her pen must have been leaking and she hadn’t noticed, her source had insisted on staying in the dark—and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in her temples. She’d missed a meal, or two, and caffeine alone wasn’t helping as well as she’d have liked.

Karen pulled up Ellison’s number, but her phone buzzed before she could call. She didn’t recognize the number. She frowned down at it, but she’d grown used to answering numbers she didn’t know. Sources came from everywhere and anywhere. She shrugged and there was the crunch of footsteps behind her. And she turned—or started to turn.

And Karen found out what it was like to be tased.

It sucked.

Really set the tone for what was to come.

#

Karen woke up under glaring lights. Her headache hurt even worse. She blinked and winced and saw spots on the insides of her eyelids. She tried to turn her head away, but someone had tied her to—to a chair. Jesus. Amazing how fast wakefulness came after she discovered _that_.

“There you are,” a main said, all amiability. Karen couldn’t see him beyond the glare of lights in her eyes.

“W-what?” It was a stupid question, but it was the best she could come up with at the time. She twisted her wrists against the zip-ties holding her to the chair. Her thoughts churned, slow and cramped in her skull, catching against each other and then splintering off in a dozen unrelated directions. “Who are you?”

“See that?” the man asked, and a grunt of acknowledgement from across the room meant that there were other people in the room. God, how many other people were there? “See that? Always digging for information. You’re tenacious, Miss Page.” He paused and moved closer, shoving the light far enough to the side that she could, at least, make out the general shape of him—tall and bulky.

She panted, “Thanks.”

He grabbed her chin, skin rough and cold. He leaned closer. Karen looked at his watery blue eyes, thinning hair, dimpled cheeks, and recognized him. Alex Marceno. Drug runner. Human trafficker. Murderer. An all-around criminal Renaissance man. The pit of her stomach went hard and cold. Marceno said, “Honey, it wasn’t a compliment.”

#

They didn’t threaten to kill her.

They just asked questions, mostly about her information and her sources. When she didn’t give them answers they liked, they asked harder, and sharper. Karen lied and spat and cried, eventually. Journalistic integrity, basic human decency, stubbornness, or the knowledge that once she told them what they wanted to know they would kill her kept her mouth shut.

They left, at some point, after turning the lights back on her. Her vision blurred anyway. Opening her eyes hurt, so she didn’t. Something dripped and dripped on the floor, close by. Blood, maybe. Hers, probably. The ground felt cold under her stockinged feet. She shook all over—might have been shock. She couldn’t move her hands, but she managed to twist her fingers around, to pick at the chipped nail polish on her thumbs.

She hummed to herself, nonsense sounds.

She wished she’d pass out. Movies made it look so easy to do.

A door swung open.

Alex called, “Miss Page, you miss us?”

#

“I gotta say,” Alex said, sometime later, out of breath. “I’m real disappointed.” His fingers tangled in the back of Karen’s hair. Her scalp throbbed. She wanted to spit on him, but worried that she’d just dribble on herself. “You’re making this much hard than it needs to be. Just—”

A thump from the hallway cut him off. It sounded meaty. Heavy. For a moment they all listened.

“Go check that out,” Alex barked, and there was a crash, and a short burst of gunfire.

Karen tried to turn her head towards the sounds and didn’t manage. Maybe it was the police, or Matt, or—

“Fuck, fuck,” Alex muttered as he bent and cut the zip-ties around her wrists, hauling her to her feet. Karen shoved and twisted, pulling against his hold. He backhanded her, and set off an explosive series of lights inside her skull. She felt his arm around her waist as he dragged her back. Her feet dragged. Concrete caught at her stockings.

“Don’t come any closer!” Alex yelled, bizarrely. His voice shook. Karen wished she could make her vision stop swimming around. Alex hefted her higher, crushing the air out of her lungs. “You take another step and I’ll—”

A gunshot ended his words.

Hot, wet blood splattered across Karen’s face and neck. Alex’s arm fell away and he collapsed, limp, behind her. Karen stumbled, trying to keep her feet, trying to breathe, trying to get her vision to clear. Her knees gave. She braced for impact.

Arms caught her. Thick, solid arms gathered her to a chest that smelling of gunpowder and smoke and blood. She thrashed, going for soft spaces, her heart beating against her ribs like a trapped bird caught in a cage. Thick fingers caught around her wrist, but didn’t crush her bones. A deep, quiet voice rumbled, “Whoa there, hey, hey, hey, whoa, I got you, it’s okay now.”

Frank.

Frank was here.

Karen laughed—or sobbed—unexpectedly, and flung herself at him, the spots in her vision fading enough for her to see the black of his shirt, the white paint on it, the blood on his hands.

“Sh,” Frank murmured, before muttering something to himself, pulling one of her arms over his shoulders. “Sh. It’s alright, Miss Page—”

“Don’t call me that,” she sounded half-crazed.

Frank twitched under her hands. He said, carefully, “Ma’am. I’m gonna get you out of here. Come on.”

Karen shook her head. It hurt. She stopped. “No. No. My—they took my bag, it’s got—I need—”

“Okay.” Frank sounded so calm. Frustratingly calm. “Okay. I’ll find it. You just—” He made to, to leave her leaning against a wall.

She tightened her grip, desperately, and panted, “Don’t leave me.”

Frank stared. Karen’s vision had finally settled enough to make out his features. He looked banged up, but not as banged up as he’d looked every other time she’d ever seen him. He nodded after a moment, and said, again, “Okay. Alright. I’m not gonna.”

They limped around the room together, a four legged creature of blood and pain and bullets. Karen shuffled around Alex’s feet and the growing puddle of his blood. Her bag sat on a little table in the back of the room, everything dumped out of it. Karen reached for it and stopped, staring at her bloody hands. “I need a rag. I need…” She wiped at her skirt, but the blood wouldn’t come off.

Frank righted her bag. She felt him watching her. He asked, “You want me to…?”

She laughed. Didn’t know why. “Yes. Yes. Just. Um. Just be careful. With the papers.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Karen watched him pack away her stuff. The bag looked tiny in his hands. She reached for it and hesitated. “It’s okay,” he told her, placed it in her hands, and pulled her arm over his shoulders once more. He curled his arm around her waist, supporting her weight. “That everything?”

She sniffed. Stupid. “I think, I think so, yes.”

“Good. We need to, uh, we should go.”

She nodded. “Yes. Yeah, I want to go.” The cops would be here. Eventually. Probably.

More bodies filled the hallway. A bloody handprint streaked on one wall. Bullet holes punctuated the cheap plaster, punching holes through incongruously floral wallpaper.

Frank said, as they navigated the bodies, “I got a car a few blocks away. I can go get it. Pull it up.”

“No.” Karen tightened her grip on his shoulder. “No. Don’t leave me.”

“Alright.” He pulled her closer.

#

Outside it was night time. Karen wondered what the date was. The sky was covered with clouds and her breath fogged in front of her face. The ground was so cold beneath her feet. She limped alongside Frank until he paused, grunted, and scooped her up. His chest was warm and solid. The change of position made her dizzy, but no longer having to hold herself upright was a relief. “Faster this way,” Frank said, moving forward quickly.

Karen’s head weighed too much to argue. She leaned her jaw against Frank’s shoulder and wrapped an arm around her bag.

He’d brought an older Impala, all black. It looked like it could have come from a police auction. He said, “Okay, okay,” and set her down as they reached it, pulling the passenger door open. It was still warm inside. Karen pulled her legs in and buckled the seatbelt. She laughed.

Frank turned the heat on after he climbed in and turned all of the vents towards Karen. She mumbled thanks, unsure if she would ever warm up.

“Welcome. You all, ah, you all set?”

Karen laughed again. It hurt. She covered her face with her hand. That hurt, too. She said, “I’m bleeding on your car.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” That was probably one of the perks of being picked up by a vigilante.

“Okay.”

They pulled out. They passed a group of pedestrians waiting on the street corner. No one looked in the car. Frank cleared his throat. “Uh. I can—I can drop you off at a hospital. Get you—”

“No.” She shivered. Her eyelids weighed a ton. She closed them. The world felt more and more distant by the second. She mumbled, “Don’t leave me.”

She though he answered, “Yes, ma’am,” but maybe she dreamed it.

#

Karen woke up when the car lights came on. She flinched and Frank said, “It’s okay.” His voice brought everything back.

She shuddered and panted, “Oh, Christ.”

“You’re okay now,” Frank told her and opened her door. He held out a hand. Karen took it. It seemed the best way forward. The only way forward. He continued, apologetically, “It’s a hike. There’s, uh, stones. Not a great path and, uh, you ain’t got shoes. I can…”

“Okay,” Karen agreed to whatever it was. The last day, or days, or whatever, all blended together, pain and exhaustion forming a crippling mixture in her head.

The world wobbled when Frank lifted her. She swallowed a whimper, listening to the crunch of his feet across gravel or bracken or whatever. They walked through trees, with the moon peeking down through the branches. Karen asked, dreamy, “Where are we?”

“Somewhere safe.”

Karen nodded on his shoulder. She closed her eyes again. She could hear his pulse through his skin.

#

When Karen opened her eyes again she was lying on a ratty couch. Her entire body throbbed in protest of continuing to exist. Frank sat beside her, spreading out gauze, rubbing alcohol, thread, and needles on the floor. He said, without looking away from his task, “I need to see to you.”

Karen drew in a shuddering breath. “I can—I can do it.” Even if she didn’t know what it involved.

Frank looked at her and frowned. He asked, “You ever give stitches before?”

“No.”

“Well.” He shrugged. “Then I’m gonna help. Can you sit up?”

Turned out she could, though it took a few tries and left her nauseous.

“Concussion,” Frank said, mouth pressed together all thin and displeased. He riffled around through his supplies, twisted open a bottle and poured two pills into her palm. “Take these.” The pills were large and white. She didn’t question it. They stuck in her throat. “Can—can you pull your hair back for me, huh?” He reached up and brushed some strands back, fingers soft over her ear before he caught himself and jerked his hand back.

She nodded carefully and pulled her hair back. It was wet and sticky. Frank frowned at whatever he saw. He asked, “Where else you hurt?”

The question made no sense. “Everywhere.” She pulled up her shirt to demonstrate.

Frank cursed under his breath. A muscle in his jaw jumped and jumped. He grabbed a rag and leaned up. The rubbing alcohol stung her skin. Wasn’t too bad, though, all things considered. He kept his touch gentle, and he worked with quick, efficient movements. After a while the pain didn’t so much disappear as grown more distant. It drew back enough for her to ask, as he held together a jagged cut on her stomach and sewed it together, “What were you doing there?”

Frank glanced up, dark eyes shadowed. The place was lit by a single weak yellow bulb on the ceiling. She marveled at how tiny his stitches were, and swallowed the bitter salvia in her mouth. “I mean, I’m glad you were there, but, um, but why? Why were you?”

His brows drew tighter. He looked, for a moment, sweetly puzzled. “I was there to get you.”

That made no sense. Not after—not after how they had left things. She whispered, “What?”

He shrugged his shoulders. His face clouded over. Guilt looked right at home on the lines around his mouth and eyes. “I’m sorry. Know I shoulda been quicker.”

Karen stared. Her eyes burned. She didn’t want to blink. “You came to get me?”

Something in Frank’s expression softened, all at once. “Yeah. Yes. Of course I did. Oh, shit, shit, don’t—you don’t got to do that, sh, sh.” He wiped at her face, rough thumbs brushing away tears. He told her, “Don’t move, hey,” and she ignored him, leaning forward and slumping in to him. And it was _stupid._ He was a killer, he was, but he’d also—he’d come for her.

“I did,” he said against her hair, holding her like she was a made of glass. “I did. I always will, alright? Don’t you ever doubt it, but I gotta, I gotta patch you up now, yeah?”

She breathed out. She breathed in. She whispered, “Yeah.” She let him bandage her face and hands and wrists and all the other injuries. When he held out a bottle of water to her, she asked, “What about you? Are you okay?”

He froze in place and stared at her. He said, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Well.” She spread out her hands. Whatever he’d put on her wrists felt cool. She admitted, too tired to keep the words behind her teeth, “Well, I do.”

Frank covered his mouth with his hand. Shivered. He said, “You need to sleep.”

Concussions apparently made her pliable. She said, “Okay.” She started to slump over, and he caught her shoulder.

“There’s a bed.”

“Oh.”

It was really a cot, covered in mismatched blankets but neatly made. Frank pulled them down for her and then covered up her legs. He had to bend down so far it seemed hilarious. He brushed her hair back again when she laughed, and said, “You’re gonna be okay. I’ll be right—”

“ _No_.” His wrist was thick under her fingers, bumpy with scar tissue. His pulse raced. She wanted to think more about that, later, when she was capable of reasoning things out again. At the moment, she squeezed tighter. “No. Don’t—don’t go away. Please. Just. Don’t.”

Frank looked at her and didn’t call her nuts, or stupid. He nodded, after a moment, and sat beside the cot, stretching his long legs out alongside it. She kept her grip on his wrist. Just in—just in case.

“Please,” she said, looking at his knuckles, his trigger finger. “Please, don’t let anyone…” She couldn’t find the words.

Frank didn’t make her.

“I won’t. Get some rest, ma’am.”

“Okay.” She swallowed. “Okay.” And closing her eyes, in some cabin in the woods with a man she’d tried to cut out of her life, a killer, wasn’t nearly as hard as she’d feared that it would be.


End file.
